


what's your motive with me, baby

by outruntheavalanche



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Abbie Is Done, Alternate Season/Series 02, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Endgame Ichabbie, F/M, Ichabod Has To Prove Himself Worthy of Her, Katrina Chooses Abraham, Slow Burn, Slow To Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 10:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15241623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: Ichabod holds his breath for a few moments before laying his hand over hers on his arm.  “Thank you. For being here.”Abbie tilts her head and manages a smile for Ichabod’s sake. Even if it might not necessarily be true, she says anyway: “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”





	what's your motive with me, baby

**Author's Note:**

> A _Sleepy Hollow_ S2 AU. Katrina chooses to stay with Abraham, and they become the Big Bads of the show. Abbie and Ichabod deal with the fall-out of Katrina's choice—and their burgeoning feelings for each other.
> 
> I originally started this a few years ago (during S2, IIRC) and recently rediscovered it. 
> 
> Title from "FACE," by BROCKHAMPTON.

“Crane, I am so, so sorry.”

Ichabod ducks his head, dodging the pitying look in Abbie’s concerned eyes. “There’s no need, Miss Mills,” he says, studying the backs of his hands, tracing his eyes along the many scars and calluses.  “Katrina made her choice. She spent years in captivity.  For years, she was not afforded the right to make her own choices. I cannot begrudge her that, even now.”

Abbie lets a cool hand settle over Ichabod’s bare arm.  “I know this must hurt though,” she says softly—too softly—before trailing off. She doesn’t finish the thought, only leaves her hand over his arm.

Ichabod holds his breath for a few moments before laying his hand over hers on his arm.  “Thank you. For being here.”

Abbie tilts her head and manages a smile for Ichabod’s sake. Even if it might not necessarily be true, she says anyway: “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

Ichabod turns her hand over and squeezes it gently before lacing their fingers together. Abbie hears her breath catch and, for a moment, she’s embarrassed of herself. And afraid she’s given herself away. It’s just a simple touch, nothing to get all fluttery and nervous over, but when she lifts her head she catches Ichabod’s eyes.  

Ichabod stares at her for far too long, and she’s reminded of that old aphorism: _if a person stares at you for longer than six seconds, they either want to kiss you or kill you_. In their line of work, as Witnesses, one can ever be too certain.

Ichabod drops his eyes to her lips for a split second before they flick away. She still feels the heat of his gaze on her, though.

Abbie gently extracts her hand from his to pat at nonexistent dander on his shoulder.

“I can set up the guest room for you,” she offers, finally forcing her hand away from his shoulder.

Ichabod gives her a slight nod. “That would be much appreciated,” he murmurs, glancing at her and then quickly glancing away.

Abbie bites back a sigh and goes to grab some blankets out of the linen closet in the hallway.

 _Is this how it’s gonna be_ , Abbie wonders, as she goes to turn down the bed in the guest room. _An unending series of false starts, averted gazes, and half-finished sentences?_

Abbie starts tugging clean sheets onto the bed, her mind blissfully free of the Headless Horseman and Katrina, Witnesses and war, for a few peaceful minutes.

Ichabod’s shadow stretching across the threshold shakes her out of her thoughts.

“Here,” Abbie says, moving away from the bed. “I think I might have an old T-shirt and some pajama pants you could fit in lying around somewhere.”

Abbie pauses in front of him and her hands flutter at her sides. Ichabod looks down at her and his lips part, like he wants to say something to her, but nothing comes out. Abbie lifts a hand like she means to push him aside so she can slip past him.

“Abbie—” he starts, reaching out to her, his fingers grazing her wrist.  

Abbie laughs nervously. Why is she so nervous? “Don’t. This whole night’s been really, _really_ weird. I’d just like to lie down and go to sleep for, oh. I dunno, the next thirty-six hours or so.”

Ichabod’s brow furrows. “Are you not feeling well?” he asks, concern laced through his words.

“Just _tired_ ,” she says, dropping her hand. She closes her eyes and sighs.

Ichabod squeezes his hands over her upper arms, kneading gently. “I’m sorry,” he says, ducking his head, his hair hanging limply in his face. “I know it has been rather difficult for you these last few days, what with Katrina and Abraham and I. And our _drama_.”

Abbie rolls her shoulders and lets herself melt into his touch just a bit. “It _has_ been pretty dramatic,” she says, with a tiny, brittle laugh.

“Perhaps…” Ichabod trails off as he keeps kneading his fingers into her arms, then slowly walks them up her shoulders.

“Perhaps what?” Abbie asks, blinking her eyes open slowly and gazing up at him.

Ichabod looks like he’s caught between pulling her in and moving away, as a hundred wars play out on his face. Abbie would laugh if she wasn’t so damned sick of his indecision when it comes to her and Katrina. Even now, with Katrina having made her choice—and her choice not being Ichabod—he was torn between the two of them.

Abbie makes the decision for them. She reaches up and shrugs his hands off her shoulders. She squeezes past him and she feels him sucking in his breath but she won’t let herself look back.

“Abbie, I—” Ichabod tries, his fingers closing gently around her wrist, but Abbie twists her wrist away from his fingers.

“I’m tired,” she says. “We can talk in the morning.”

Abbie knows there won’t be any talk. Ichabod will carry on like nothing’s changed, prattling on about the Archives or Thomas fucking Jefferson, and Abbie will nod along and smile and laugh as she always does. Because that’s what they do.

“Okay,” Ichabod says, letting his hand slip away from her wrist.

Abbie pads down the hall to her room and closes the door gently behind her. She closes her eyes and lets her head tip back against the door.

She’s dreamt of this moment for years, of Ichabod finally being untethered, unattached, free for the taking. And yet she can’t let herself give in to the indulgence.

Abbie pushes away from the door and unbuttons her blouse, slipping it off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Her jeans follow in a heap, and then she collapses in bed in an exhausted heap, wearing only her bra and panties. 

She’s out like a light a few minutes later.


End file.
